Organs

There is a meanness in you. It stays there like an organ. Slit your belly and it would
slowly flow out, black and lifeless. It would fall upon your bare feet and you would notice the silky, warmness of its texture. At first glance, it is repulsive. You scream at yourself and say, ͞how could this entity ever have lived inside me?͟ But then, its texture grows on you. You begin to appreciate the way it makes you feel. When you pick it up, there is nothing worth doing. You dream of lying in a field. The sky is black and the graveyard is your essence. When someone asks, ͞are you okay,͟ you reply with a simple nod. Everything is fine. This organ is your friend and it keeps you warm and bubbly inside. It sings you minor keys and serenades your soul.
You come home. Shake the feeling of hot sweat away. You take a shower. A cold one.
You notice the fly bouncing off the lightbulb. You say to yourself, ͞I am this fly. No one can tell me otherwise and it is my decision to become this fly.͟ You then watch yourself from the light fixture with your millions of eyes. You first notice your posture. You are slouched and then you forget that you cannot sing and you do it anyway. You then see the ugliness of the black organ at your wet feet. You notice it has its own rhythm. It beats like a heart. You then decide, as a fly, that the subject you are observing is quite boring and you fly through the crack of the worn down house. You hated being a fly. You hate yourself. But why? Why is it so?
Your mother sends you a care package. You go to the mailroom. They ask what your
mailbox number is. You forget. The organ screams out that there never was a mailbox because you cannot attend college because you are meant to be in a hospital bed hooked up to IVs. You are sick. You feel yourself getting a fever. You stomach has a pulse. It feels like it is rotting. You run away from the mailroom. You fall on the grass in front of Maxcy Hall. You look up. Your stomach is eating itself. You wonder why you are still alive. The doctors say that it is just Irritable Bowel Syndrome. But most gastroenterologists know nothing about stomach problems. They just have a PhD. To you, it feels like stomach cancer. But what if it is? What if it is an incurable form of stomach cancer? How many days do you have to live? Should you just end it now? Or maybe it just hurts because the organ is not in its place. It rests on your chest and stares at you without a face. You fall asleep.
Now eight o’clock, you are back in your dorm. Your roommate is drunk. You pour
yourself a cup of coffee. You sit at your typewriter and begin this piece. You cry. You cover the scars on your wrist with the cardigan you were given. You do not drink the coffee but pour it on your thigh. The pain is a sudden rush. You wonder why no one has ever kissed you. Why no one has ever rested their head on your chest. How you have never felt the warmness of another being in your soul. The organ lies in your lap. It keeps you warm.
You come back from the laundry room with your coffee-stained pants. The stain did not
come out. You throw them away. They were ugly pants. You turn off the light. It’s hot in Bixler Hall. You turn the fan toward you. The breeze caresses your bare chest. You lie in the still darkness. You hear the latest frat initiation outside. Girls are crying. One is singing next door. She has the most beautiful voice you have ever heard. You rest your ear on the wall as the aroma of coffee sneaks its way into your nostrils. She is singing a Lana Del Rey song. You think that you would like to marry her. Just her voice. That voice coming down the aisle of an empty church during a funeral would make you fall to your knees in tears. It is now three AM. You think maybe I deserve better. Maybe I do deserve to be at college. You think maybe that you will feel the warm embrace of a person. You think maybe there is a chance. You think maybe there is a reason to be on this campus right now.
But now the organ sneaks up to your mouth. It gradually flows its way back into your
throat. You swallow it and it rests in its place inside you. You start to realize that you just can’t explain what you can’t explain to yourself. You are buried six feet beneath. You look in the mirror and see that you are depressed.